


His Inconvenient Heart

by ComplicatedLight



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Innocent is suspicious, James is awkward, M/M, Peterson is flirty, Robbie is jealous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-26 18:19:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/pseuds/ComplicatedLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James takes action to get his governor to notice him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. James wants

**Author's Note:**

> Four little chapters to be posted over the next four days.
> 
> Starts fairly meek and mild - doesn't necessarily end that way!
> 
> Thanks to the extremely talented [dogpoet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dogpoet/pseuds/dogpoet) for beta-ing above and beyond. All remaining messes are completely my own - not least because I've been tinkering post-beta. Quite a lot. Finally decided to stop sodding about - so here it is.

It’s 11.50 on a Monday morning and Lewis has been in a meeting with Innocent for 20 minutes. He was summoned the moment he walked through the office door, having been out since 8.30, tying up the loose ends of their most recent case while James made a start on the paperwork. No time for James to fetch him a cup of coffee, no time to go to the loo even. He’d walked back out into the corridor with a face like thunder.

_Great. One of those days then._ James sits at his desk, flipping through his memories of their activities over the last couple of weeks, in search of an explanation for his governor being pulled into the Chief Super’s office. All he can come up with is the usual selection of conversations with Oxford types, with Lewis doing his well-practiced impersonation of a simple northern copper, lulling them into a false sense of superiority, only for James to piss on them from the great height of his intellect. Just the thought of their little double act makes James smile, and really he doubts any of what he can recall is worthy of 20 minutes of Jean Innocent’s meticulously apportioned time.

James can actually hear the annoyance in Lewis’ footsteps as he strides back down the corridor towards their office, and he makes his daily, silent vow to St. Martha and St. Jude, the patron saints of servants and hopeless cases:

_I won’t be a smartarse today. I won’t do anything to wind him up. I’ll make his day easier, not harder. I’ll be a true helpmate._

James worries that all the agitation and stress that goes with this job can’t be good for his boss’ heart, and yes he is aware that he thinks more about Lewis’ heart than is perhaps usual or healthy in an inspector - sergeant relationship, but he also knows through long years of trying, that there’s nothing to be done about it – he cares about Lewis’ heart, that’s all. He promises himself that he’ll do what he can to calm Lewis down.

“I’ve got two sodding words for you” Lewis mutters as he walks in. “Sodding Action Man.”

And before James can stop himself, his mouth is open and out it comes – the very essence of insufferable public schoolboy.

“Actually, Sir, I think you’ll find that that’s three words."

_What is fucking wrong with me?_

He sighs and drops his head, trying to refocus on the document on his desk. Lewis glowers at him and opens his mouth to snap something back, but evidently thinks better of it. Instead he says, “Right. Lunch. I can’t face this on an empty stomach. Me belly thinks me throat’s been cut. If I don’t get a sandwich soon, I’m going to bite someone.”

James stares at him, then drags his gaze away as heat floods up through his neck and face. _Christ!_ He’s immediately caught up with an image, a fantasy of Lewis, holding him firmly against his strong, solid body, one hand gripping James’ jaw, easing it up and to the right, to give Lewis easier access to his neck . . . and not quite a bite yet, but testing the skin with his lips, his teeth . . .

James is suddenly lightheaded as adrenalin surges through him and his breath catches in his chest. His cock is twitching with want. _Fuck, Sir, Robbie, bite me. Leave your mark on me._ He completely misses that Lewis has already shrugged on his suit jacket and is heading to the doorway. Lewis gives James the sharpest of glances and barks “With me, Sergeant,” as he heads out down the corridor. It isn’t a request. James leaps to his feet and follows, buttoning his suit jacket to hide the bulge in his trousers, another in a long line of Lewis-induced erections, all doomed to flower and fade without witness or appreciation.

Sat opposite each other across a small wooden pub table, James watches his governor chewing his cheese sandwich, and it occurs to him that perhaps Lewis’ unadventurous and predictable palate is an indication of the nature of his other ‘appetites’, and God, isn’t that a depressing idea? The thought that Lewis might be a dull, insipid lover is truly awful, when what James has guiltily fantasized about over and over again is his superior officer taking charge of him – as skilfully in bed as he does at work. Not that he’s ever going to find out about his governor’s appetites. They’ve worked together for four years and in all that time Lewis has never been anything other than utterly professional – friendly, yes, but professional. It’s clear that Lewis is fond of him, but in a frustratingly, dispiritingly non-sexual way.  James sighs, brings his attention back to his own sandwich, and tries to concentrate as his boss starts to tell him about the meeting with the Chief Super, about her plan for Lewis and Peterson to meet regularly to discuss their differing work methods, to bring their two teams closer together, maybe even work the occasional case together. “Cross fertilization of ideas” she’d called it apparently.

Lewis is banging on about how smarmy Peterson had been, full of ideas about how they could both benefit from this “valuable new enterprise,” and claiming to be particularly enthusiastic about the possibility of “sharing skill sets.” Lewis spits out the last words, himself the very antithesis of enthusiastic.

“I don’t want to share anything with that smug git, least of all me skill sets!”

He huffs a breath and allows a smile to form at the corners of his mouth, despite the deep frown line still present between his eyes. James has seen this combination of Lewis expressions – exasperated yet amused despite himself – so many times, often triggered by James himself. The tightness in his gut eases as he sees his boss begin to unwind.

“Should have seen the amount of stuff he had in his hair. It’s like he’s got shares in bloody L’Oreal.”

James turns a particularly fine supercilious expression towards Lewis.

“Well I wouldn’t necessarily hold that against him Sir. I know in your day styling your hair with anything other than Brylcreem or spit was considered flamboyant, but male grooming is widespread these days and generally seen as acceptable. I’ve been known to use hair products myself.”

Lewis glares at him for a moment and then eyes his hair doubtfully and it’s pretty clear to James that he’s never noticed, probably never even looked at his sergeant’s hair before. _Of course not,_ James thinks bitterly.


	2. Peterson notices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peterson has bad taste in lunch but good taste in sergeants

In the end, James has to organize the first meeting with Peterson when it becomes clear that Lewis is never going to, despite four chummy emails from the man of action himself, the last two copied to Innocent. They meet in the pub, Lewis arguing to James that the only way he’s going to get through “this bloody farce” is with the liberal application of beer and chips. He isn’t saying much, though James knows that he’s listening carefully, despite appearances to the contrary. Mostly he seems occupied with eyeing Peterson’s tempura vegetable platter with obvious disdain, and looking out the window.

 So it’s left to James and Peterson to get things started, James scribbling notes as they go along. He’s in an awkward position, feeling the need to contribute something, but not wanting to make a suggestion that will require Lewis to actually work with Peterson. After racking his brain for an idea that will keep everybody happy, he floats the possibility of bringing all the local junior detectives together for skills-sharing sessions as part of their on-going development – which Lewis and Peterson can run separately, though Innocent doesn’t need to know that bit. It’d start the process of cross-team cooperation early in their careers, and it’s actually not a bad idea at all, if James does say so himself.

 Thinking on his feet, he outlines how it might work in practice, and before Lewis can even give him a nod of acknowledgement, Peterson is gushing praise, admiring his “forward thinking.” He brings his hand to rest for a moment or two on James’ shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze and looks directly into his eyes as he smiles with approval, and James, with colour rising in his cheeks, feels the answering tug of a smile pulling at his mouth, despite himself. He doesn’t even like Peterson, but there is something . . . not unpleasant about being admired by someone Lewis detests, right in front of him. James takes a swig of his tonic water to hide his reaction, and then glances up just in time to clock Lewis looking like he’d like to stab Peterson with his fork, and Peterson himself looking like he’s just turned the smugometer up to 11.

Twice more during the meeting, James says something that Peterson appears to find intelligent or entertaining, and he’s given the full-on praise, smile, shoulder-squeeze treatment both times. By the end of their planned hour, Lewis looks like he’s practically breathing fire, and James feels a spark of something – excitement or hope or possibility – something, anyway, that hasn’t been around for a long time. It’s clear to James (as it must be to Peterson, who is not unintelligent, despite his choice in lunches suggesting otherwise) that Lewis _hates_ that Peterson has noticed his sergeant, is appreciating his sergeant. And _that_ , he thinks to himself, _that_ , just might have potential. Though James - who has all the flirting ability one would expect of a socially ambivalent, ex-trainee priest - knows that the plan forming in his mind is hardly playing to his strengths. _Shit._


	3. He's really done it now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peterson makes an offer. Robbie feels sick.
> 
> This little chapter is really the last bit of (relative!) calm before the storm . . .

Peterson reports back to Innocent that they’ve made a promising start, and she drops into the office, wanting to know from Lewis when their next meeting is scheduled, suggesting that given neither they nor Peterson has a case on at the moment, there’s no reason for them to be dragging their feet. Once she’s gone, James ever so casually, and without looking up from his computer, says, “I don’t mind doing this without you if you’d rather not go. I know you can’t stand him, but I thought he was ok, really. You could tell the Chief Super that you’re delegating to me as part of my professional development.”

He glances up and catches Lewis looking like he’s just been knifed.

“You trying to do me out of a job, Sergeant?”

“No Sir, not at all. I was just trying to protect you from unpleasant duties.”

“Well don’t,” he snarls. “I don’t need protecting from the likes of Peterson. I don’t know where you get these ideas.”

And so a second meeting is organized, also at the pub. A few minutes in, James – feeling so agitated that he’s already shredded his beer mat – manages to admire Peterson’s leather jacket – tells him he’s been thinking about getting something similar himself, but isn’t sure he can carry it off, being so tall and skinny.  Peterson smiles at James, leans closer, and assures him that yes, James is tall and slim, but he’s got broad shoulders and he’d probably look great in it. James blushes and is almost certain that Peterson is about to suggest he try on the jacket, when Lewis bursts out, “Can we just get on with the bloody meeting and leave the fashion advice till later?” though the look on his face says something more like _If you get any closer to my sergeant, I’ll knock your bloody block off._

So they make a start, James going through the notes he made the previous time they met, and they begin to plan the skills sharing sessions for the junior officers. Lewis – looking like he could be the poster boy for high blood pressure – only takes an interest when he realizes that Peterson is manoeuvring to run sessions alone with James. He soon puts a stop to that, insisting that he and Peterson run all the sessions together, reminding Peterson and James that Innocent’s wish was for the two DIs to work together. James can’t decide whether sitting in on those sessions will be the best or worst experience of his police career to date. Definitely worth videoing though, either way.

At the end of the meeting, as they’re headed to the car park, James promises to have it all typed up and in their inboxes by the end of the afternoon, with Innocent copied in for good measure. Peterson turns to him, and once again squeezing James’ shoulder, he assures him that with his kind of talents he’ll make a great DI, and that he’d be more than happy to offer James some guidance for the inspector’s exam, if he’s interested. Lewis smirks, knowing that James has no interest in being a DI, and cheerfully waits to witness Peterson being turned down. Instead, James looks flustered. He glances at Lewis and immediately looks away when he sees that he’s frowning hard and staring back at him. Blushing to the tips of his ears, head down, his hands jammed in his coat pockets, James stutters, “I’d . . . well . . . if you don’t mind . . . thank you.”

Lewis looks like he’s going to be sick, but it’s not over yet because of course perfect bloody Peterson still has all his notes from when he took the exam, carefully filed away at home, and would James like to come round for a drink, maybe on Friday night, and have a look? James – his face a picture of awkward uncertainty – finally manages, “I’m not . . . well, yes . . . that’s very generous of you, Sir.”

And although he probably came across as ridiculously earnest rather than anything more seductive, James knows that he’s really done it now. He’s broken their unspoken rule. No one is his Sir other than Lewis – certainly not Peterson. Lewis places his hand in the small of James’ back and none too gently shoves him in the direction of their car, even as Peterson is calling that he’ll email James with his home address. They drive back to the station in silence – Lewis gripping the steering wheel with grim determination and James looking out of the passenger window, not sure whether to laugh or cry.


	4. Robbie takes charge of the situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It can take a long time for Robbie to take action, but when he finally does . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, lovely people. Let's just say that it shifts up a gear!

In fact things are extremely uncomfortable for James and his governor for the rest of the week. They solve a fairly straightforward case in less than two days, but Lewis is tetchy with the witnesses and worse with the suspects. By Friday morning he’s barely talking to James and is so rude to the stand-in pathologist (Laura’s on holiday) that for one tense moment James genuinely thinks there are going to be punches thrown.

But despite Lewis’ obvious anger at Peterson showing an interest in James – an anger so potent that it’s been a constant undercurrent, swirling around them dangerously all week – nothing more has been said, and James is seriously doubting that all his plotting will have had any effect in the end other than to further raise Lewis’ blood pressure and damage their working relationship. And on top of all that, he’s still got to go through with the evening at Peterson’s house, God help him.

It gets to 6 o’clock and James knows that he has to see it through – have one last try.

“I’m going to head off now, Sir, if that’s ok. Going for that drink at DI Peterson’s tonight, and I want to go home and have a shower before I head over there. Need to pick up a bottle of wine, too.”

He looks up and meets Lewis’ gaze for a couple of seconds, keeping his expression as neutral as he can. Lewis looks back, his own expression unreadable, before shrugging and refocusing on his computer screen.

“Aye, if you like. I’ll see you Monday.”

He sounds distant, like he’s already forgotten James is there and is engrossed again in whatever it is he’s reading.

James sighs, finally defeated. He saves the report he’s been working on and shuts down his computer. He stands up, suddenly shockingly close to tears, and rummages in his desk drawer, looking for his car keys, trying to compose himself enough to walk out with some semblance of normality 

When he straightens up, Lewis is right next to him, so close, in fact, that Lewis’ bare forearm – where his shirtsleeve is rolled up – brushes against him, and any chance he had of calming down is instantly gone. Lewis doesn’t say anything, though he pulls his arm back a little, and James has to hold his breath, because it’s the only way he can be here, can hold himself in, with Lewis this close. He focuses on the wall beyond Lewis’ left shoulder.

Everything in the room stills, except his inconvenient heart, trying to rattle loose of its constraints. James can feel Lewis looking at him, waiting for him to look back. Finally, when it’s clear that Lewis is just going to stand there until he does, James turns his head enough to meet his steady gaze. Lewis moves to stand directly in front of him, leaving barely an inch of space between them, and James can feel him, can hear him breathe. Neither of them moves, and the air around them is hot, charged – the moment before the storm breaks.

Eventually, not being able to bear the tension any longer, James rasps, barely getting the words out, “Was there something you wanted, Sir? Something I can do for you?”

Robbie appears to consider this, eventually making the slightest of nods, apparently coming to a decision, and then says quietly, almost as if he’s getting used to the idea even as he’s saying it, “Actually Sergeant – _James_ – there is. Something I want.”

He slides his right hand between them so that his palm is over James’ heart, and steers him backwards until he’s got him up against the wall, hemmed in by the filing cabinet on one side and a stack of boxes on the other. He leans in, pressing the whole length of his body against James.He reaches up and takes James’ head between his hands and tilts it back, exposing his throat. He holds him there – James staring wide-eyed at the ceiling and swallowing hard – his neck bared to Lewis’ gaze. A second, two seconds pass, as if Lewis is hesitating, deliberating, and James starts to shiver as he’s held in place. Finally Lewis leans in and firmly, deliberately, presses his nose into the left side of James’s throat and drags it from just above his shirt collar, up, to below his jaw, breathing James in, wrenching a choked moan from his sergeant.  Adrenalin slams through his system, his heart rearing up in his chest, forcing his lungs to empty. Lewis growls, his nose now nudging against James’ ear: “I want you James. I need to know if that’s ok.”

And James – James who can be so articulate, so eloquent – James who quotes Dante over dinner and Larkin over corpses, cannot get the words out, _the_ words, the only ones he has ever really wanted to say. Finally, hoarse and desperate he manages, “Please. Yes. I want  . . . Sir.”

“And I don’t want Peterson going anywhere near you. You’re mine. My sergeant. My James. Is that understood? 

 _Yes._ And James has to bury his face – contorted with emotion – in his governor’s shoulder, because it’s so painful, because the relief hurts so much.

“Yes. Sir.”

And then every fucking thing about Lewis that has made him cry with longing over these endless, lonely years, that has made him want to drop to his knees and cling to him – it’s all here, right now. His strength, his warmth – _God_ – his determination – to be the focus of that fierce, single-minded determination – it’s completely electrifying. Lewis has him pinned against the wall, using his chest and belly to hold him there, and his cock, already full and heavy, is insistent against James’ thigh.

James feels a little dizzy, like his world is spinning too quickly, and his hands flit over Lewis’ back and shoulders trying to find a place to hold on. Lewis gathers him in, gripping each of his wrists with his capable hands and presses them against the wall either side of him. He settles him for a few moments then gently lets go and instead uses his forearms to pin James’ shoulders, sliding one hand round the back of James’ head, and cupping his cheek with the other. The world stills again, while Lewis waits for James to meet his gaze once more.

“This ok, James?”

“Yes. Sir.” James swallows. “Please.”

“Ok then.”

 Lewis slides his right hand down to the back of James’ neck, grips him securely and pulls him down. He drags his closed mouth hard against James’ and James makes a small animal sound deep in the back of his throat. Lewis rubs his thumb across James’ dry lips and then runs his tongue along the seam, slipping the slick tip in a little way, and sliding it back out again. And it feels so dirty, so utterly filthy that James thinks his legs may buckle under him and that he may yet find himself on his knees in front of his boss. Lewis slowly licks against James’ closed lips again and again, wetting them, softening them, loosening them. And finally, when James is liquid with desire and sensation, desperate for more, Lewis tightens his grip on him again, pulls him onto his tongue and devours him.

James, if he were capable of stringing a sentence together, would say that this is everything he has ever dreamed of, everything that has fuelled a thousand desperate orgasms. In the event, all he can actually manage is a groaned, “Sir, _fuck,_ ” as Lewis starts dragging his teeth across James’ tender, kiss-swollen bottom lip. James does his best to give as good as he gets – sucking on Lewis’ tongue, and writhing against him – but Christ, he’s pinned to the wall by a man who has 20 pounds and 20 years experience on him. He’s utterly outclassed and overwhelmed. _It’s fucking heaven._

Lewis jams his right thigh between James’ legs to push them apart. He releases James’ shoulders and grips his hips instead, easing him down the wall a few inches, and when their cocks rub against each other for the first time, the “fucking Christ” that Lewis snarls is as thrilling as the physical sensation itself. James slides his hands down to Lewis’ backside, gripping him firmly and pulls the two of them tightly together as Lewis grinds against him again and again. James feels too constrained by his clothes, by the wall – he’s over-heated and panting for air – but, _fuck_ , none of that matters because Lewis’ breathing is getting rough, and he’s started to grunt with each thrust, and James knows that if this carries on for much longer he’s going to come in his best work trousers, without Lewis having even laid a hand on him.

And then, as quickly as it started, it’s over. Lewis pushes away from him like he’s been scalded and spins round to look at the open door, as if he’s suddenly just realized where they are – that anyone walking past the office would have seen them. And, although James has been facing the corridor the whole time, he’s been in no fit state to notice anything or anyone – the whole of the Traffic Division could have been lined up watching and taking notes and he wouldn’t have had the slightest idea.

Lewis looks dishevelled and flushed, his sizeable erection obvious in his suit trousers, and God only knows what James himself looks like. He starts tucking his shirt back in – feeling disorientated and bereft of the press of Lewis against him – when right on cue they both hear footsteps coming towards the office – the rapid, expensively shod footsteps of their esteemed Chief Super. Lewis drops into his chair, pulls up to the desk to hide his hard-on, and at the same time reaches over to shove the top file off his desk into James’ hand. As Innocent pops her head round the door, James is leaning against the wall, file open at groin level, studiously reading about the new procedures for requisitioning stationery.

Innocent takes in the scene before her.

“You two still here?” she directs at Lewis. He glances up at her.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

She waits for more, and when none is forthcoming, she stands, considering, knowing that she’s missing something, but no idea what.

“I don’t like it when you ‘yes Ma’am’ me, Lewis. I always think the two of you are up to something. I’m usually right.”

Lewis turns to face her more fully, but apparently can do nothing but agree with her.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

She glowers at him, then turns her attention to James.

“You’re uncharacteristically – I might even say suspiciously – quiet, Sergeant. What on earth are you doing, slouching against that wall?”

 “Well, Ma’am.”

James hesitates, and Lewis turns towards him, watching with anticipation to see what, if anything, the lad can come up with under the not inconsiderable circumstances of having just been ravished by his superior officer against the wall in question. James inhales deeply, then releases the breath and looks Innocent in the eye, channelling pure academic dickhead.

“There’s compelling research evidence that physical movement, a change of posture even, can aid cognitive processing, particularly memory and learning. I thought modern policing should embrace all possibilities for increased efficiency of thought. In fact, only this week I was praised for my forward thinking, which I believe may be linked to my atypical use of architectural features for postural support. I can send you a reference list if you’d like. Ma’am.”

It’s classic James, and as is traditional on these occasions, there’s a moment’s pause while Innocent just stares at him, and Robbie bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself bursting out laughing. Eventually Innocent turns away, shaking her head.

“For heaven’s sake, get out of my nick, both of you. And t _ry_ to stay out of trouble over the weekend.”

James watches her go, weak with relief, leans for a minute to get his breath back, and finally peels himself off the wall, aware that his shirt is plastered to his back with sweat. Lewis is facing away from him, busying himself with putting his jacket on. He hasn’t spoken a word to James, not even turned to make eye contact, and James flashes cold with fear. He can hear the roaring of his blood in his head. _Is that it? One perfect rut against the office wall, and that’s it? He’s never going to look at me again, is he?_ And his mind is off, conjuring up – with the ease that comes with a lifetimes practice – every miserable, self-punishing prophecy it can manage – that he won’t get what he wants because he doesn’t deserve it . . . that this is some awful misunderstanding . . . that Lewis never intended for him to take it seriously . . . that he’ll have to find a way to shove every piece of longing back out of sight so they can pretend this never happened.

But his mind can’t sustain its attack, because Lewis had said, “I want you,” and “You’re my James,” and he’d sounded so clear and definite, when usually . . . well usually, he’d rather talk about murder and mutilation – anything but his own feelings. Surely that must mean something? In his heart, James _knows_ that means something.

He looks up just in time to watch his boss turn round. Lewis looks at him, and clearly understands something of what’s going on. Of course he does – he’s seen it so many times – James’ heartbreaking ability to snatch misery from the jaws of happiness. He smiles, his expression all reassurance and warmth.

“Just needed a minute to settle meself. Thought I’d made it clear though, Sergeant.” His voice is rough with emotion. “You’re with me.”

It isn’t a request.


End file.
